Next Door Daddy

by Amy Brent

  “It’s called a riding crop,” Sol said, slapping his own knee with the little patch of stiff leather. “In sex, it’s used to hit certain body parts, to elicit a certain reaction. Some of our clients find this pleasurable to watch—”

  “—and some of them find it fun to do,” said Mars.

  Sol dragged the crop over her breasts—and then he raised it suddenly and she flinched, bracing herself for the sting. She could imagine it falling on her nipple, the crisp smack as it hit her, the little shot of pain that would go through her. But the blow never fell—and much to her surprise the thought of getting hit made her wet.

  So stepped up close to her and reached up her skirt, sliding two fingers into her cunt. “See, if you weren’t into this, you wouldn’t be wet,” he said, softly. “If the thought of you being taught how to take a fist didn’t excite you in the least you would have left at the beginning of this meeting, no matter what I’d asked. If the thought of getting your pussy hit with this stick really left you cold, you’d have closed your legs by now.”

  Alisha didn’t know what to say. She didn’t quite know if what Sol was saying was really true, but it felt that way. “And yes,” Sol continued, “there’s the fact that you’re beautiful and we’d like to keep fucking you if we can.”

  “We’re prepared to offer you forty percent,” said Mars.

  “Forty percent?” she repeated. She was aware she sounded like an idiot.

  “Of our profits, from the sessions that include you,” said Altaire. “You are, after all, the one who’s going to be putting up with men who couldn’t find a clit if you tattooed a little sign to it, saying, “I’m the clit!’”

  “That doesn’t sound reassuring,” she said.

  “But just think,” Altaire said. “You remember how unhappy you were with Calvin just two weeks ago? Just imagine being able to help other women like you—and help them feel what you do and love their men the way you love Calvin.”

  Altaire always knew how to appeal to the best in her—but he did have a point: between the three of them they’d saved her relationship with Calvin. She could feel herself wavering. “Doesn’t every woman deserve a shot at happiness?” asked Sol.

  “All right,” she agreed. “But first, do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?

  “Smack my pussy with that,” she said. “I want to know how it feels.”

  THE END

  More Billionaire Romance

  Loads of steamy billionaire boss action in here!

  THE BILLIONAIRE’S SURROGATE

  Camille

  The atmosphere in the casino was electric. All around me, faces were watching the game, sharing in my success, living vicariously. Through me. If you've ever been the center of attention, the one person in the room no one can keep their eyes off of, you know how addictive it is.

  I wasn't addicted to gambling. I'd done it a couple of times and I'd won and lost. Nothing prolific, nothing to urge me to go there again.

  But this, this was different. I was breathing my success; it had replaced the oxygen in the air. A downer of a night at a friend's party had driven us here. Sharon had left at midnight. One more round of Blackjack, I'd told myself, and I was leaving, too.

  Everything changed, then. I started winning. Winning big. Winning big is addictive. The gasps and the cheers and the fan base you build when you're winning and winning and winning again are addictive. I never understood people who gave up everything for gambling. I still don't. I wasn't giving everything up, I was making the Casino cough up the dough.

  A cute guy sat across from me and he made eye contact. Cerulean blue eyes. Flawless skin. A smile that made me weak at the knees. He was going to ask for my number after the game. Or ask for me to join him in his hotel room. Maybe we would have a couple of drinks before undressed me. Maybe he would dive between my legs without waiting, leading me to a different kind of climax than what I was running on now.

  I was aware of my dress against my skin, my low neckline and what he saw. Caramel skin. Big curly hair. The swells of my breasts rising and falling with my breathing. My lips, full and plump and glossy. The money in front of me, making me worth it.

  I played another hand. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

  He was looking at my cleavage when I looked at him again and I liked it. I wanted him to stare. After tonight, when I'd won my money back more than fivefold, I was going to make sure that he knew all about winning, too. The look in his eyes said it all. He wanted me.

  "You should cash in," a woman said behind me and when I looked over my shoulder I frowned. She looked like the motherly type. Maybe even the grandmotherly. She still wore a mink stole the way they used to back in the day. Wrinkles on her face suggested she was too old to understand that I was building my own future here. I ignored her. I was on a roll.

  Everything slowed down. My heart thundered in my ears. I felt the crowd around me draw a breath. I held my own. The electric blue eyes and the green felt table was the backdrop to my winning streak. After this, my life would never be the same.

  I put the final card down. The dealer played his hand. Everything around me shattered. The crowd exhaled disappointment. The dealer won this hand and drew my money away from me. The whole pile of chips. I watched it move away from me in a blur. I looked up at Mr. Blue Eyes. He stood up without looking at me and sauntered away. I looked back at the chips, counting the white space between every heartbeat.

  That woman had been right, I should have cashed my chips when I was ahead. And I had been right, too. My life would never be the same.

  I had a hundred left in my pocket. A crumpled note that seemed forlorn and weary after the gold I'd had at my fingertips. I sat down at the bar and ordered vodka. A lot of it. I was going to drown my sorrows. If I ended up drowning myself in the process, so be it.

  Somewhere Sharon arrived and grabbed me by the arm.

  "What the hell is wrong with you, Camille?" Her tone was pitying, not angry. I let her pull me to my feet. The room spun. There were three bartenders when the whole night there had only been one. I felt like vomiting. This was what being a failure felt like. It tasted bitter in my throat.

  "You could have used the last money to get a cab instead of drinking yourself into a stupor. I'm glad you called me instead of plastering yourself to a pavement."

  I'd called her? I let Sharon steer me out of the door, through the parking lot, toward her car.

  "You lost everything, didn't you?"

  I couldn't hold it anymore and threw up on the tarmac right next to her car. I heaved and retched until there was nothing left.

  "God, it's all on your dress. You couldn't have bent over first?"

  I thought I had. A tissue appeared in front of me and I wiped my mouth. Sharon opened her car door.

  "You owe me for the smell of puke that's going to linger for the next three months."

  I owed her but there was no money. Didn't she know that? I put my head on my knees, smelling the coconut body butter I'd put on after showering to come out, mixed with the sweet-sour tinge of vomit. My head spun as fast as the wheels did as Sharon drove back to the dorm.

  She parked and helped me out of the front seat like a child, steering me into the building. Inside I pulled my own clothes off. It felt like sandpaper on my skin. I needed to get out of it. The bed was softer than I remembered it. The room danced around me and threatened to make me throw up again but darkness closed in and I let it take over. This was much better than vomiting and spinning. Sharon said something but I was too busy concentrating on the darkness coming at me to save me.

  When I opened my eyes light pierced my eyes and I complained, closing them again. My head throbbed. I rolled over, my head lolling off the bed. The cold air in the room tingled over my skin and I sat up. Too fast. The world spun around me.

  God, how much did I drink? I pressed the palm against my head, trying to calm the fluttering pain. It didn't help. I was naked and hungover over and...

  Th
e events of the night before rushed toward me and hit me in the face like a physical punch. My stomach turned and I scrambled to the bathroom, making it all the way to the toilet. It tasted like old alcohol and despair. I hugged the toilet for half an hour before sitting back. Fifty grand. That was how much I'd lost.

  No, I'd lost a lot more. I'd started off with fifty grand. I'd doubled it and doubled it again and one more time before I'd lost it. I pulled myself up over the basin and splashed water on my face. Reality was a cold hearted bitch.

  What was I going to do? My mom had given me everything she had to finish my degree, to take care of myself while I was away from home. She'd been a hairdresser all her life with nothing more than a diploma. She'd given me that money so that I could make more of myself than she'd been able to.

  I'd meant to make the money more. My car was on the verge of breaking down so I had to keep taking the bus. I needed new clothes. I wanted new clothes. I'd wanted to make the money more.

  Instead, I'd lost it all. I was studying finances. I should have understood the concept of probability. I should have known better.

  Should have, would have, could have. Those never helped anyone. They sure as shit wouldn't help me.

  I needed to make a plan to get money. I couldn't tell Mama. If she found out what I'd done she would never forgive me. She wouldn't be angry. She would be disappointed. The worst thing in the world was to disappoint Mama.

  I showered in the dorm showers and got dressed. I took two Aspirin, a glass of tomato juice from my little fridge, and felt just as shit as before. This was going to be the darkest day of my life.

  A newspaper was in on a table in the communal area and I tucked it under my arm. I went downstairs and waited for the bus. I needed to start looking for a job to earn back that money if I wanted to pay my way through school at all. The movement in the bus made me wonder if I was going to throw up again. Would it wash out of the suede jacket of the woman next to me?

  I opened the newspaper, hoping it would distract me from my rolling stomach. My head pounded. The letters danced in front of my eyes. The chances were slim but at this point, all a girl like me could do was hope.

  I browsed through the classifieds. All the jobs that had money worth working for needed the education I was still in the process of getting. All the other jobs - waitressing, cleaning, tutoring - didn't pay nearly enough to make it worth my time or my degree. I closed my eyes and opened then again. Bad idea with the bus swaying from side to side.

  I paged through the rest of the newspaper. On the page with the Homosexual and Adult Services ads, something caught my eye. Buried between the Immorals was an ad for a Surrogate Mother. Someone needed a belly to breed a baby in. The payment? Fifty thousand dollars.

  Exactly what I needed.

  How long would I have to stay away from my mom for, nine months? I only saw her every six months as it was to save on traveling costs. If I skipped once I could have the baby and be done when I finally went back home. Mama would never have to know.

  I looked at the ad again. A surrogate mother. The truth was, I’d done worse.

  Mark

  I had both hands on the steering wheel to ground myself. Marina sat next to me, fussing with her shirt. I glanced at her. Her blond hair fell in a curtain and I couldn't see her face.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  She turned her head and I knew I would see her face now if I looked. I didn't look. I knew what her face would look like. Lately, she'd been looking at me with this unbelieving expression.

  "We talked about this, Mark. We can't just turn around and go home now. The interview is set up. Do you want to leave her hanging?"

  I shook my head. My knuckles were turning white. God forbid I should leave someone else hanging. Marina was getting what she wanted. This woman we were going to meet, the one that was supposed to carry my baby, was getting what she wanted. What about me? Was I going to get what I wanted?

  Marina had always wanted a child. It was one of the things on her to-do list when we got married. It hadn't bothered me then that she had this list, that she had a timeline. It should have. I should have asked her if I could see the list and checked if I was on par with her.

  The house had been fine when we'd bought it but she'd needed an interior decorator to redo the whole thing. Why hadn't we just bought somewhere else if she was unhappy? When I'd asked her she'd told me it wasn't her fault I didn't care what other people thought of us. I didn't understand why it mattered when we were happy. Maybe that was what she meant.

  When I had the opportunity for a raise but it would take me away from her, she'd urged me to do it. We would just grow sick of each other if we spent the rest of our lives in each other's personal space. I thought that was the point of marriage. She was happy being the housewife while I slaved at the office. Maybe it helped that my PA was too old to be attractive. Maybe Marina knew that I would always come home to her no matter how many reasons she gave me not to.

  "You have to take Seventh," Marina said. She fussed with her blouse again.

  "You look fine."

  "I look old."

  I frowned and looked at her. I was forty. She was four years younger. We'd been married for nine years. I was sure she'd married me for my money but I'd never asked. It would have been rude. The doctor had said it wasn't due to her age she couldn't fall pregnant. She blamed me for waiting too long.

  I wasn't sure if she understood that I wasn't ready to be a father. The same way I hadn't been ready to be a husband when she'd put forward an ultimatum. We'd been dating for three years at that point. Marriage or breakup. That was it for me.

  I hadn't wanted to lose her. Too often I wondered how my life would have been if I'd chosen myself over her instead.

  I'd grown used to being a husband. Maybe I would grow used to being a father, too.

  We parked in front of the St. Joseph Hospital and got out of the car. I tugged on my tie. Marina's heels clacked on the tarmac and then on the linoleum as we walked into the building. The air inside the hospital was cool. It smelled clinical. Doctor Kamal was in his office when he arrived and he smiled, his teeth white against his coffee colored skin.

  "She's ready for you," he said in his American accent that sounded out of place against his Indian appearance. He gestured toward the room where we were going to conduct the interview and Marina walked first, all business. We were talking about the body that would host her baby - our baby - after all.

  She was a slight thing, with big brown eyes and even bigger hair and a caramel colored skin. Her lips were a pinkish red and stretched as she smiled. She looked young, healthy, fit. The right kind of body for a baby. Not like Marina's who was patched up with makeup to hide the wrinkles, who had had two plastic surgeries on her breasts to make her body seem as young as she wanted to feel.

  "Camille Tyson?" Marina asked. The girl nodded. "We're the Owens. I'm Marina, and this is my husband, Mark."

  I held out a hand and Camille took it. Her skin was soft and warm. She wore jeans so tight it looked painted on and a loose shirt that had settled around her breasts, outlining her body. Hourglass figure. Narrow waist. Upright. None of that mattered.

  We sat down on opposite sides of the coffee table that was littered with maternity magazines. One was open. Camille had been reading.

  "Do you understand what we're expecting of you?" Marina asked. She spoke to Camille like she was a child. Camille nodded.

  "Carry the baby to term."

  "Our baby," Marina emphasized. Camille nodded. She didn't look like the kind of person that could do with a baby of her own right now. I knew exactly how she felt.

  "All your expenses will be paid for the duration of the pregnancy," I said. Marina glanced at me. We hadn't discussed this but I'd decided it for myself. Marina did her best to spend as much as she could of it, but in the end, it was still my money. An expression flicked over Camille's face when I said it but it was too quick for me to read.

  "How lon
g do you need to think about this?" Marina took out her handheld and poised the stylus. "We are in a bit of a hurry, you can imagine."

  She was in a hurry. I wished she would stop saying we and us like this was something I'd been dreaming of feverishly.

  "I don't need to think about this." Camille looked from Marina to me and back. Her eyes were a deep, dark brown. The kind that reminded me of varnished wood, dark, rich.

  "You're sure?"

  She nodded. "I'm ready to go when you are."

  Marina looked at me and there was pure happiness in her eyes. I couldn't remember when last she'd looked at me like that. Her eyes seemed a brighter green than usual and for a second I thought that maybe, just maybe, this would be a turning point for us. Maybe this would be the impossible miracle to save us rather than the spiral of despair I'd come to see it as.

  We got up, said our goodbyes and waited in the interview room until Camille left.

  "She's very tan," Marina said when we were alone.

  "Does that matter? Our baby will have our genes. It's not necessary to discriminate."

  "She's young, too."

  I rolled my eyes. "Maybe it will work, then."

  The quip was unnecessary and I regretted it the moment I said it, but it was too late to take it back. I would man up and mean it. I wasn't going to grovel. Marina's face was an expressionless blank and when Doctor Kamal cleared his throat in the door we both plastered our perfect smiles on and walked into his office.

  "I have more interviews set up for you," he said.

  "That's not necessary." I was the one that spoke up. Marina had opened her mouth to say something, maybe she wanted to see more girls. I was happy with Camille. "We want Camille."

  See, I could do we and us when Marina didn't want it, too. She glared at me but I ignored her.

  "She's ready to start, so all that's left is to set a date."

  Doctor Kamal nodded. He glanced at Marina but she was pouting like a child. She would sulk before the rest of the day and if I didn't do something special for her we would fight. We could go out for dinner later, blow a grand. She would forget. If I threw money at her everything was right with the world. I wondered when I'd stopped seeing that as a problem. Maybe when that had gotten easier than trying to argue with her.